The End Until
by Ryeloza
Summary: Tom and Lynette try to figure out why they've been so unhappy lately.  Spoilers for the latter half of the season, with hints of what's to come.  Slightly cracky; definitely tongue-in-cheek.  Rated T for language.


**Disclaimer: ** Come on, guys. If this was mine, we all know that the end of this season would be shaping up pretty fucking differently than it is. Not satisfied? Fine. Then I really and truly make no claim to the disaster that _Desperate Housewives_ currently is for any Tom and Lynette fan like me.

**Story Summary: **Tom and Lynette try to figure out why they've been so unhappy lately. Spoilers for the latter half of the season, with hints of what's to come. Slightly cracky; definitely tongue-in-cheek.

**The End Until…**

A story by **Ryeloza**

So it goes like this:

Tom is having this really bizarre dream. In it, he and Lynette are in his brand new office and they're having a duel. The only problem is that she has an actual sword, and all he has is the stupid swordfish that he insisted they hang on his wall. Plus somehow she knows how to fence expertly while he's barely competent, and as a result, she keeps parrying him into the sharp edges of all the chrome furniture until his hips and ass are so bruised that he swears he can feel it in reality. Every time it happens, she takes a moment to laugh: "It wouldn't hurt if you had gone with the soft wood like I said."

When he wakes up, he's rubbing his side because he feels black and blue even if he isn't. It's also annoyingly reassuring to be surrounded by all of the cozy, homey furniture and blue walls and soft bed sheets instead of the leather and steel horrors of his dream. He pushes the thought aside because he doesn't want to read too much into the dream; he's fairly certain his subconscious is telling him that Lynette was right, and it's too much to deal with this early in the morning.

Plus she isn't right. She only thinks she's right. After all, he's the one with the garishly frightening office and mass of underlings—er, employees. How could he possibly be wrong?

The thought is enough to put a spring in his step as he leaps out of bed to face the new day. Whistling, he shimmies out of his pajamas and heads into the bathroom. The shower is running; even now, Lynette is still the early bird. And he figures as long as she's all wet and soapy and he's half-hard anyway, they might as well have sex. He pulls back the curtain with a flourish. "Hey, babe," he says, stepping in behind her and putting his hands on her hips. "Wanna conserve some water?"

She bats his hands away so ferociously that he slips and bashes his hip into the wall. Instantly it starts throbbing, and fuck if it doesn't hurt ten times as much as it did in the dream. Regaining his balance with all the grace of a wombat, he tries to glare at her. It's a lot harder when he's faced with her gorgeous bare ass. "What the hell?"

She ignores him.

"Lynette?"

She keeps ignoring him.

"Hey! Lindquist! What's your problem?"

That does it. He's not sure why. Suddenly she turns and faces him and there's practically smoke coming out of her nostrils; it's scarily reminiscent of the dragon lamps, which were way too lifelike and willing to obey his wife in the dream. He makes a mental note to get rid of them when he gets to the office.

"I'm mad at you," she says.

He doesn't think he's ever heard her say anything so blatantly obvious in his life.

"Why?"

She shrugs. He stares. He's not sure which of them is supposed to speak next, like someone has forgotten to write their next scene or something. He feels the absurd urge to ask for his line, but since no one is there to provide it, he has to improvise.

"Uh, is this about the other day? Because I'm pretty sure that I was the one mad at you."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Why?"

He wants to shrug too, but he doesn't want her to think that he can't do any better than mimic her, so instead he sputters, "Well…You know…"

"I do?"

"You…emasculated me…or something."

"I did?"

"Yeah. You know…Because you didn't listen…? Don't support…? Secretly hate me?"

"Right. I think it's that last one."

"Really?"

"Well how else would you explain it? I've been having dreams about trying to run you through with a sword. That's gotta mean intense dislike at the very least, right?"

He nods, because that certainly sounds like the correct interpretation, and then he realizes what she said and his eyes widen. "You've been having those dreams too?"

"You mean I'm killing you in your dreams too?"

"Killing…Trying to cut off my dick…It's hard to tell."

"Subtle."

"I'm also fighting you with a surprisingly limp swordfish."

"Gee, Tom. I guess we can't begin to analyze that one."

He laughs. For a second. He can't help it. It actually sounds funny. Then he remembers that she's had his balls in a vise for years and has secretly resented him for having a dick and can't stand that he's finally regained ownership of his own manhood. It's no joking matter.

"So why do you hate me so much?"

"Does it matter? I don't think motivation is the primary concern here."

"Really? Because I'm kind of interested. I didn't even know that you were mad at me."

She rolls her eyes. She does it really well too—slow and exaggerated and pointed. It's really quite beautiful. "Did you not notice all of the pointed glares? The cold shoulder? The disappointed, hurt look in my eyes?"

"Uh…"

"My eyes are really fucking beautiful, Tom! Especially when they're all broken! Maybe you should pay attention!"

He thinks about saying that he just thought about how beautiful her eyes are, but considering he was considering it in the context of sarcasm, he's not so sure it's a good idea. "Are you sure?" he asks. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who ever notices that look in your eyes, so it seems pretty unlikely that I wouldn't see it now."

"Maybe you're blinded by chrome."

"Oh. Okay. So you're mad."

"Uh-huh."

"But you don't know why?"

"Well," she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. It draws his eyes right to her nipples, which are rosy and pointed; they look good enough to eat. Unfortunately, he doesn't think they're going to be having sex anytime soon. She taps her foot impatiently. "Obviously it has to do with this new job."

"Well that sounds improbable."

"Why?"

"You're the one who wanted me to take it. In fact, you were mad at me because I didn't want to. That I remember."

"Yeah. Well now I'm mad at you because you did take it. Keep up."

"That makes no sense. I mean, what was the point of forcing me to take it if it's just going to make you want to kill me?"

Lynette sighs, reaching up and knocking her fist lightly against his forehead. "I already told you, motivation doesn't really matter. The point is that I was mad then and I'm mad now, and if I want to be, I can be mad at you when you quit."

"Uh, who said anything about quitting?"

"That's not important right now."

It seems like sound logic. After all, he's not going to quit, and she's not going to ask him to. That would be absurd. "So let me get this straight," he says. "You've been secretly mad at me for months now to the point where you've been fantasizing about killing me, but you have no idea why, but that's not important?"

"Yes."

"Well that's just completely fucked up!"

"You think I don't know that! Jesus, Tom, none of this makes any fucking sense!"

"Really? None of it? Because I thought the whole thing about you never supporting me really made sense." Before he even finishes the sentence, she's shaking her head in pity. "Really?" he asks, astonished. "It doesn't?"

"No."

"Hmm. But why would I say it if it's not true?"

"Because you're high on Donald Trump fantasies? I don't know! But can you take a second and actually think back on the past twenty-one years?"

"I don't know," he sighs. "That sounds like a lot of hard work."

"Please," she asks, and for a second she sounds like something from out of a dream. Not the terrifying dream he's been having, but some old, soft, sweet one that used to make him smile. "For me?"

They stare at one another for a moment, Tom's stomach tight with this strange, nervous energy, and he's really struck by how much he loves her. Then the moment passes, her eyes narrow again, and he suddenly realizes that he must have been blind not to notice the anger. "Just do it, okay?" she snaps.

"Okay. Fine. I'll do it."

He shuts his eyes, and tries to remember.

At first it's slow, halting. Just these strange flashes of picture in his mind's eye. Working together late at night and playing footsy under the desk. Celebrating him closing a big deal over champagne. The really wild sex that followed, during which he's fairly certain they conceived the twins.

Their kids.

Then, like a dam has broken, the memories come flooding back to him.

Lynette giving up her career to stay at home with their kids. The day she threw a dinner party for him to woo his boss with little to no notice. The countless hours he traveled while she dealt with the daily routine of their children. Her pep talks to him on the phone before a big meeting. The little notes she used to slip into his briefcase to cheer him up. When she agreed to let him come work with her, despite her fears and hesitation. The day she told him to go after his dream of opening a restaurant. The moment she told him that she quit her job to come work with him. Every single day she wore that orange shirt she hated. The late hours they spent closing up the pizzeria together. Her pushing him out of his funk once they closed. Her supporting him going back to school; working all of those hours while pregnant so he could better himself. The day she told him that he was a better fit for Carlos, even though he was fairly sure she was lying.

"Holy shit," he breathes, opening his eyes to look down at her. "You're right."

"I know."

"I'm an idiot."

"Yeah."

"Is that why you've been so mad at me?"

She shrugs again. He thinks that her eyes look suspiciously glassy, but it's hard to tell in the shower. If she's crying, it's well hidden by the water. "I don't know," she repeats. "I really don't. I think that's part of it, but not really."

"Really? Because it sounds like it should be a big part of it."

"I know. But it doesn't feel exactly right."

"Then what? The chrome? Really?"

"It's not you."

"It's me now."

"Why?"

His brow furrows. The question makes no sense. "What do you mean 'why?'? It just is."

"Because you've changed?"

"Have I?"

They stare at one another, both pondering the question. To Tom, it feels like a piece of a puzzle that doesn't quite fit. Why would one job change him? Why would work suddenly keep him from being the man he's always been?

"Maybe now you want someone just to stand by your side and smile and look pretty," she says sadly. "And that's not me."

"I've never wanted that."

"Before. What do you want now?"

"Not that."

"Are you sure? Because I think that's the point, Tom. That's what you want, and that's what I can never be. That's where this is all leading. That's what's happening here. That's why I secretly hate you and you think I'm trying to emasculate you. All just because I don't smile and agree with everything you say."

The words hurt his heart, and he's sure he can hear it breaking. Maybe it's her heart, though. Maybe it's both of theirs.

And then suddenly, he's pissed.

Who—or what—has the right to make him change who he is down to his very soul? Not some stupid job or a boss or money. That's for damn sure. And what right does he have to expect her to change who she is?

He doesn't want her to change.

"No," he says quietly, shaking his head. He reaches out and takes a hold of her arms, shaking her a little to get his point across. "That's not what I want. Maybe it's what I'm _supposed_ to want now, but that doesn't matter!"

"I think it does."

"No. I want you, Lynette. I want the woman who always has my best interests at heart, even when I'm not listening. I want the woman who challenges me. I want the woman who is so scared of losing everything that she can't let go of control. I want the woman who laughs at my jokes. I want the woman who supports me when I'm right, and tells me when I'm absolutely fucking wrong. I want the woman who is smart and passionate and curious. I want the woman who _needs_ me, even if she won't admit it."

She is crying now. Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed; she's sniffling quietly. For the first time in a long time, he really recognizes her: not the cold, hard, angry woman she's become, but that wonderfully beautiful and flawed woman that he's always known her to be. And his heart soars.

"I'm afraid," she says. "I'm afraid that you're going to forget again. I'm afraid that I'm going to become so hard I won't even know myself anymore."

"Lynette." He says her name more gently than he can remember being able to recently. Slowly, he reaches out and tips her chin up until she's looking at him again. "Even if that happens—even if somehow everything goes to hell—both of us will know the truth deep down. Nothing can change that. Nothing can stop that. And somehow, we'll find our way back together. Because you and I, babe…"

She lets out a shaky breath, actually manages a smile. Everything about her is strength right now, from the look in her eyes down to the way her toes curl protectively over his. And he loves every inch of her, inside and out.

"We're forever."

* * *

><p><strong>An: **I just couldn't help myself. Finally getting Word back on my computer (yay!) gave me a high that I can't explain. It collided with all of my bitterness about the stupidity of this storyline (you want to break them up, show? Fine. But it had better at least make some fucking sense), and this was the result.

I'm hoping that this is my breakthrough piece. I've been having a really hard time writing lately because I've been so disappointed in this Tom and Lynette storyline, but I'm tired of letting the show get me down. I'm not going to stop loving this couple just because the show is trying to make me hate them. So this one is for anyone frustrated or anxious about where the rest of the season is heading. I hope you guys enjoyed. Or at least laughed a little.

-Ryeloza


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